Thursday
by acollectivemind
Summary: After thirty years, it was time. For everyone else, it was just another Thursday, but for him, it was the last Thursday. Set in the future/slightly canon/hints of Destiel.


He never thought it would go down this way, never thought that the end would be so…quiet.

His hands, which once slew monsters and demons and corrupt archangels, were now spotted with age and shook so that he couldn't hold a full glass of water without spilling it. His legs, once thick and strong and capable of outrunning vampires and wolves and wendigos, were now broken and bent, the nerves and ligaments and muscles shattered and disconnected from his brain, uncontrollable.

The hunter in him never accepted this decaying body with grace, never accepted that he could be brought down by anything less than a full-blown apocalypse.

Irony, it seemed, had bested him again. The one thing he never had enough of in his youth, he had too much of now. And it was killing him.

It was just so wrong, that his soul, the soul of a warrior, was trapped in a body that couldn't stand on its own any longer. Again, the irony was not lost on him. The Big Guy upstairs certainly had a sick sense of humor, to give him a fighting spirit and yet not let him die in battle. He supposed it didn't really matter, since most of him had died with his brother.

The days moved so slowly now, and he knew there wouldn't be many more of them. It was almost time.

The house where he lived now—he never called it "home" because a home meant family and he didn't have that anymore—was so different from the places where he'd spent his youth: rundown motels, haunted houses, grimy warehouses. This house was spacious and clean and full of happiness and light that wasn't his. He missed Bobby's house. He missed how everything was a different shade of brown or puke green, the shower that always seemed to be too hot or too cold but never just right, and the creak of the floor just inside the front door that would wake Bobby up every time one of them tried to sneak out at night. That, that was the closest to home he'd ever been.

Old age was making him sentimental, and damn did he hate it.

He knew there wouldn't be many more days left of him watching crappy telenovellas on a 30-year-old television and being spoon-fed green Jell-O by the one person left on the whole goddamn planet that he still cared about. He remembered how hard he had struggled against Death when he was young; now, he would welcome it as an old friend. His body, which had been worshipped by many lovers and had destroyed many enemies, was now his cage and held his soul prisoner, trapping it, suffocating it.

Yes, old age was making him sentimental. He wondered if he had been more sentimental as a young man, if he would have ended up here: alone and quiet, the two adjectives he thought would never describe his life.

He woke up on a Thursday. "Ben," he called softly.

Ben appeared in the doorway of his room.

"It's time," he told him.

Ben nodded, and the man's eyes reflected a little of the emptiness that he felt in his soul. Gone was the young, stubborn boy that he had met almost five decades before. Before him stood a tall, salt-and-peppered, successful surgeon who had always been exceedingly grateful to him for saving his and his mother's life. So grateful that when he had shown up on his doorstep after his brother's death thirty years ago, Ben had taken him in without question. Without question, Ben drew and redrew and redrew the sigils exactly as he instructed him to; without question, Ben never mentioned his brother's name again. Without question, Ben never asked him about hunting because he knew that, without Sammy, it meant nothing. Without question, Ben never asked if he was his father.

He would've liked to answer that last unspoken question for Ben.

Even now, on this wholly unremarkable Thursday (unremarkable save for the fact that it would be his last), Ben didn't question his intentions. Without words, Began Ben began to smudge and wash away the sigils that had hidden them from Heaven for thirty years.

Once Ben was done and had left the room, he took a deep breath and for the first time in so many years, he prayed.

"Castiel."

He closed his eyes. _Cas. _

"Hello, Dean."

His eyes still closed, he said, "I really should put a bell on you. Damn angel."

He heard, rather than saw, the scuffle of Cas's feet towards his bed. He felt the mattress give slightly, and he saw in his mind the black-haired angel with the tan trench coat, barely resting on the mattress, skittish like a deer. Ready to bolt at the first sign of Dean's anger.

But his anger had melted away decades ago. What had remained after the anger had passed was much harder to swallow.

Heartbreak.

He knew, without seeing, that the angel stared at him. Even after thirty years apart, Cas hadn't gained any damn sense of personal boundaries. He felt the angel's hand move right next to his. Almost touching. Almost.

"Castiel," he said again.

"Dean."

And there it was, in that one word. Thirty years of anger and hurt and pain and loss and longing, all packaged together and delivered express on the lips of an angel. Thirty years wrapped up in one syllable: his name. The angel who had never been good with emotions or humanity was far more capable of communicating a lot while saying only a little.

Damn it, Dean had never been good with words. Thirty years. For thirty years, he had been goddamned hiding from Heaven, and from the only member of the heavenly host who had saved his life more times than he could count, who had ripped apart Hell and reclaimed his soul, who had been his one true friend. For thirty years, he hid from the only person who could have saved him after Sammy's death. He had spent thirty years of his life hiding, and it wasn't fair.

And it was only now, thirty years and one word later, that Dean realized that it was nobody's fault;that it was just time.

And now it was his time.

But after thirty years, what could he say? Damn, he wished he had thought this through. Had thought of what to say, what to do. But he hadn't thought of those words, words which were meaningless, now that he considered thought about it. Words which would dry up and fade away, much like he soon would. Now that he thought about it, there was only one word that still meant anything. But instead he said, "It's Thursday." He didn't open his eyes.

"Yes, I am well aware."

More weight shifted onto the mattress. The angel's hand brushed against Dean's, just for a fraction of a second. So light, so fragile, that it almost didn't happen. And just like that, the time for words was gone. Dean now knew that there was nothing he could say that the angel didn't already know. He didn't have to tell the angel that he was sorry or that he was dying or that he'd tried to pray every day for the last thirty years, but couldn't because he was a coward, too damn scared to stand up to Heaven (again) after Sammy's death. He didn't have to say it. The angel knew.

Cas continued to stare at Dean, and Dean continued to breathe. His eyes were still closed.

"Dean," Cas said, "Look at me."

"No."

"Dean, look at me."

"I can't."

A pause. "You have lost your eyesight?"

Of course Cas would be literal. "No. I just _can't_ look at you."

"But if your eyesight is not impaired—"

"Please." How could Dean explain that he was now old and broken and couldn't damn well stand to be looked at with pity, especially in those blue eyes that were as familiar as Sammy's? He was an ancient withering mummy, but he still had pride, dammit.

"Dean." There it was again, that word that spoke a million thoughts and feelings in one syllable, but only when Cas said it. And because it was Cas saying it, Dean opened his eyes.

The angel in front of him, God help him, was Cas. An older, wrinkled, graying Cas, but Grace still shone through those big baby blues. _Cas._ "You're old."

"So are you."

"Dick."

"Ass-butt."

Dean cracked a small smile, the first in years. "Yeah, I guess I have been an ass-butt." Understatement of the millennium. "But, I thought angels don't age? Not like us anyway. Why are you old?"

"Because you are."

"I'm what?"

"Old."

It took Dean a minute or ten to wrap his head around what the angel meant. Cas, who was probably older than dirt (literally), had let his human vessel age just because he had? Decades and dimensions spent apart, and they had still grown old together. Well, simultaneously, anyway.

Again, words failed Dean, just as they always had. He moved his hand and placed it over the angel's. "Stay with me," he said, "I want to sleep." He closed his eyes, and soon, his deep and even breathing was the only sound in the room. Still quiet, but no longer alone.

He dreams one last time. He is young again, and strong, and driving his baby down a long straight road in the middle of nowhere. The window is down; the radio is cranked up and playing Kansas.

He sings. _All we are is dust in the wind. _

In the rearview mirror, he sees Cas materialize in the backseat. The wind ruffles the angel's dark hair. Cas closes his eyes and lets the wind caress his face. It's beautiful and if Sammy were in the car too, it would be perfect.

The Impala slows and comes to a stop. Dean gets out of the car and sits on the hood. He stretches his legs out, just because he can. Cas joins him.

"Big, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"Figures I'd wait till I'm dying to see the Grand Canyon."

"Technically, this is only a projection of an image in your subconscious. This is what you think the Grand Canyon looks like."

"Shut up."

They sit together silently for a long time, letting the Grand Canyon loom and stretch in front of them. Dean figures that time doesn't matter in his subconscious dream world. He also figures that he'd better try to say some of those words that have been trapped inside of him for the past thirty years, even if he doesn't quite know how.

"I had to."

"I know, Dean."

"I…" Suddenly Cas's intense stare, which Dean has never gotten used to, is too much. He looks at anything but the angel sitting so, so close to him. "I'm scared."

"Of death?" The angel's voice is soft. Soothing. Like apple pie a la mode.

Dean shakes his head. "No, not of death." He covers his face with his hands. God damn it, how could he say this? "I'm scared of being trapped. Suffocated."

"You are afraid of death by suffocation? I can assure you that will not happen."

"No." Dean climbs off the Impala's hood and stands in front of Cas. He places his hands on the angel's shoulders, on that tan trench coat that was more familiar to him than his own skin. He summons the courage he'd lost for the past thirty years. Looking straight into the angel's eyes, he says, "All these years, after Sammy…without you…I've been trapped. Hiding from all of Heaven and Hell, from every supernatural thing or monster that ever wanted to destroy me. I was trapped in my own body. Helpless. I couldn't save Sammy. I couldn't see you. I'm weak and I'm human, but to be so _useless_ is hell for me. And I can say that since I've been there. When—when I go, I can't be caged like that again, powerless. I need to breathe again. I need to _move._ To fly again. Not held behind some Pearly Gates or Hell Fire_._"

The angel continues his favorite hobby and stares at Dean. Dean knows that eyes are windows to the soul, but Cas doesn't have a soul. Just Grace. He breaks eye contact because he is so damn weak and human and all that angelic grace pouring out of those big damn blue eyes is just too damn much, even in his dream.

"Dean." There is that word again. His name.

"Dean."

Cas, the king of no personal boundaries, places his hands on Dean's face and forces that oh so invasive eye contact again. "Dean," says the angel, "I promise you, there will be no cage."

"How do you know?"

The angel cocks one eyebrow. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition. And I've never let go." He puts his left hand on Dean's arm, over his hand print that had been seared into Dean's skin when he had pulled him out of hell so many years ago. "I will never let go. Your soul, Dean, the soul of the Righteous Man, can never be caged. My Father would not allow it. _I_ would not allow it."

"But your brothers…what will they do? What if they fight you on this? What if they want to, I don't know, have me tortured for all eternity? I'm not exactly on Heaven's good side. What if they hurt you?"

"Well, you know me. I'm always happy to bleed for the Winchesters."

Dean laughs, the action unfamiliar and rough to his throat. Thirty years ago, he thought most of him had died with Sammy, but now that he is here, with his angel, he realizes a little less of him had died than he thought. He takes his angel's hand from his shoulder, the same hand that had pulled him out of hell, and he kisses the palm, gently, knowing that now actions speak louder than words.

Except one word.

He looks into the angel's ridiculously blue eyes again, no longer afraid of the Grace that reaches out to him. And it's time, his time, and he's no longer afraid. He smiles and thinks of the day his parents brought Sammy home from the hospital. Now it's his turn to be brought home by his angel.

"Cas," he says. His name for his angel.

It says everything.

When the angel's hands intertwine with his, Dean wonders if they'll fly. When the angel's lips close over his own, Dean knows that they'll soar.

When Ben entered Dean's room to check on him that evening, he knew that the unasked question had been answered. He sat next to the old and crippled body that once held Dean, the best man he'd ever known, and held one of the old fragile hands. "Godspeed," he said.

A breeze lifted the curtains of the window that Ben didn't remember opening.

The Righteous Man flew free.


End file.
